Around the walls an eastern loom
Had hung its purple fold—
A hundred lamps lit up the room,
And every lamp was gold.
A horn is heard, the drawbridge falls—
"Oh, welcome! 'tis my son!"
A cry of joy rung through the halls—
"And his fair bride is won."
But that fair face is very pale,
Too pale to suit a bride:
Ah, blood is on her silvery veil—
That blood flows from her side.
Upon the silken couch he laid
The maiden's drooping head;
The flowers, before the bride to fade,
Were scattered o'er the dead.
He knelt by her the livelong night,
And only once spoke he—
"Oh, when the shaft was on its flight,
Why did it not pierce me?”
He built a chapel where she slept,
For prayer and holy strain:
One midnight by the grave he wept,
He never saw again.
Without a name, without a crest,
He sought the Holy Land:
St. Marie, give his soul good rest—
He died there sword in hand.
L. E. L.
